


Bittersweet

by BlueMuirin



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-24
Updated: 2011-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-18 15:39:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMuirin/pseuds/BlueMuirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris turns the ring around and around on his finger. A ring of powerful protection; she'd given it to him. The gesture had meant something back then. It reminds Fenris of how she chose <i>him</i> first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Fenris turns the ring around and around on his finger. A ring of powerful protection; she'd given it to him _._ The gesture had meant something back then. It reminds him of how she chose _him_ first.

Aryana.

She is a living reminder of his failings.

He fears that she has moved on. He has seen a connection between her and the apostate: little intimacies in their exchanged glances, words and gestures that have made him the outsider.

A bottle of Aggregio Pavali has loosened his reticence to talk, and so he has come back to the courtyard of her house, back to where it all started.

 _It had been the evening after he killed Hadriana: his demons had been too much for him and he'd felt like tearing his own skin from his bones. All he could think of was to go to her, the one good thing in his cocktail of emotions._

 _But everything inside of him was so tightly wound that he had floundered in confusion. When she'd touched him unexpectedly he'd been overwhelmed by a raw rush of power, an instinctive defense mechanism, born of all those times he had been touched against his will. A white light crackled behind his eyes and before he'd known it, he had her pinned against the wall. Every sinew tense and strained, he'd held her there, fingers tangled in her hair, his face mere inches from her own._

 _Wide-eyed, she'd gasped, and he'd taken a step back, face flushed with shame. When he'd lifted his gaze to meet hers, she'd reached out to him, her eyes filled with longing. She'd kissed him, her lips coaxing him to let go of his anger, let go of his control. His body had responded with a shockwave of desire. He'd pressed his hot hard length against her; kissing her neck and lips with an intensity that was almost brutal._

 _It was burnt into his memory. It had felt like the beginning of something, but nothing he'd ever felt before._

Every night for the last year it has replayed in his mind, consuming him with an endless ache. It wears him down, but he embraces it.

There is a chink of light through the half-covered window, it offers a view to another world, a world he'd lived in for a fleeting moment. He can hear a light buzz of chatter, and her voice as she laughs. _Her beautiful voice that had whispered his name in the darkness and cried out in pleasure as he entered her. Her beautiful voice that had pleaded with him not to leave._ She had never laughed with _him._

The apostate is with her. She says something but Fenris cannot hear the words. She walks to the place where Anders is sitting, and she touches his collar, running her fingers lightly along his neck. Anders smiles and looks down shyly for a moment, then brings his gaze up to meet hers, abject adoration written all over his face. He stands, brushing the hair from her face with such tenderness that it hurts to watch. Then he kisses her, cradling the back of her head in his hands.

Fenris swallows a scream. His stomach contracts in a spasm of almost unendurable pain.

 _He knows how it feels to kiss her, to embrace the rolling waves of rapture, caressing her tongue with his own. She'd moaned with pleasure as he'd pulled her head back, kissing her so hard it left angry welts along her neck. She'd run her hands over his exposed skin, brushing her fingers lightly over his lyrium tattoos. The sensation had been exquisite: his nerve endings had sung, suspended on the brink between pleasure and pain._

Pleasure and pain, he hardly knows where one ends and the other begins, they have been intertwined for as long as he can remember.

Inside, Anders pushes her short dress up to her waist, running a hand along the inside of her thigh as he kisses her.

 _He'd had her first. He'd felt her first; all warmth and dampness for want of him. She'd held him close, traced his length through the thin fabric of his leggings, all the time pulling him in with her pleas, "Fenris… Fenris… ."_

Fenris feels his head spin and he slumps against the wall. He shouldn't stay, but he's addicted to the way she makes him feel. He can't let go of the bittersweet longing. He knows it is _another_ kind of betrayal to remain, to watch them, but still he does.

The apostate's robes are strewn on the floor now and he has her legs pulled up and wrapped around him. Fenris can see everything, everything that he wants for himself.

His skin is prickling and he's hot, aching with desire, jealousy inflaming his lust. His hand slips down to the pulsing heat in his loins. He runs his fingers along his swollen length, torn between the sight of her arched body, and the image he has when he closes his eyes.

 _She'd taken him into her mouth, pulling him in deep, then teasing the tip of his cock with her tongue, and when he could take no more, he'd turned her around and pressed his length against the entrance to her tighter passage. He'd expected her to hesitate, but she'd groaned with pleasure and urged him on until his slick shaft was fully inside of her. Grabbing her hair, he'd pressed his mouth to the back of her neck, taking in the salty taste of her skin. As she'd growled words of encouragement he'd lost all hope of control and released his hot seed into her. It was so intense, so intimate, she was his, she was his._

He shouldn't be here, shouldn't give in to the relentless yearning, but he cannot stop. He knows her so intimately, he can almost feel her again, almost taste her. His hand moves faster along his length and as he hears Aryana cry out in pleasure, he releases in shuddering ecstasy. He falls to his knees in the dirt, suppressing a cry of shame and relief.

The light goes out inside and still Anders does not emerge.

Fenris thinks of the moment that he failed her, of the tightness in his chest, the overwhelming panic and confusion. He remembers how she looked at him as he walked away. Dry sobs of despair catch in his throat.

He thinks about ending it, of how easy it would be to let their enemies take him down. Who would ever know that it had been deliberate? But deep down he knows he cannot do it, cannot leave her. She's shown him to be capable of a feeling he thought he'd never have and he can't give up the feeble shred of hope that he might get her back.

His liberator has enslaved him.


	2. Chapter 2

  
The clang of steel on steel resonates around him. Smoke and dust sting his eyes while the smells of scorched earth and sweat invade his nostrils. Melee in Lowtown: a way to earn some coin, work off his aggression and fight the good cause, whatever Aryana has decided that is this week.  He can see her in the distance, a true live wire, discharging crackling arcs of energy into the fray.

He is always aware of her;  fighting with one eye on his opponent, the other on hers. It is a distraction that holds onto his mind, a distraction that may prove fatal. The fear of losing her, really losing her, is wired into his consciousness.    

She makes me weak.   He scowls and brings his hand up to staunch the deep cut on his arm, a wound he should have easily avoided. He takes a deep breath as the pain washes over him. For a moment he feels light headed and unaccountably hot, his legs buckle and he slumps against a wall.

When the fighting is over, Aryana casts a glance around them. Triage first: she directs Anders to Isabela, while she attends to his arm. Then a few snaps of her fingers and they spread out, cover the area. Within minutes the place is picked clean of valuables.  He marvels at her cold, driving efficiency.

The battles are one sort of agony, but  the quiet times are much worse. He thought he would get used to it but the intimacy of working with them is starting to wear him down.

* * *

It is a warm and humid evening. For once, the windows of Fenris's mansion are open, allowing the sounds of the evening to filter in. The air is filled with the idle chatter of people walking around the town, punctuated by the occasional discordant noises of a guard patrol passing by.

His sword is laid out on the table before him. He tilts the blade slightly and with a practiced eye, draws a coarse stone along the length of it, sharpening the edge. After a few strokes, he takes a smoother stone, gently honing the blade. He finds the task relaxing;  the tension in his body loosens a little as he works.  Finally, he takes an oiled cloth and slides it along the flat sides of the blade before sheathing the weapon.  

He considers the sword for a few moments before taking a piece of paper from his pack and unfolding it. An elaborate script runs across the page in silver ink. This magical rune is indecipherable to him; his reading skills are limited to the little Common that Aryana has taught him, but he knows that it will increase the damage caused by the blade. He has been saving this rune until he found a weapon worthy of enhancement. He lifts the sword and considers it again; this has proved to be a good weapon, well balanced and holding an edge far longer than most other blades.   

It is still early and the Amell estate is nearby,  he picks up the blade decisively and sets out across the courtyard.    
   


* * *

Aryana is sorting through a storage chest when he arrives. She looks up at him with mild surprise. "Fenris, to what do we owe this pleasure?"

"Forgive the intrusion."  He unsheathes the sword and holds it out in front of him. "If there is time, I'd like Sandal to enchant this blade."

She casts her gaze about the room. "Orana, would you fetch Sandal for us, tell him we need an enchantment."

Orana nods and heads toward one of the back rooms.

"Do you want any of this stuff?" Aryana gestures towards armor, potions and weapons that are sorted into piles he'd categorize as  'essential', 'useful' and 'junk'.

"I'll take some of those potions," he replies, "for those times when you mages forget to keep an eye on my well being."

"Hardly ever happens!" she says, feigning indignation. "Take what you want, Varric is going to sell off what we don't need."

It is only a few minutes before Sandal and Bodhan appear, beaming with enthusiasm.

Fenris hands over the weapon and rune. "How long will it take to enchant this blade? I can come back later to collect it."

"It won't take long, why don't you stay and watch," says Bodhan. "My boy loves to show off his technique."

Sandal's stubby fingers are remarkably nimble. He picks up a quill and copies  the intricate rune onto the blade with a silver liquid that glows with an unnatural   luminescence. He scatters fine sand onto the traced pattern and it sticks to the silver lines. Then he lays the blade upon the parchment holding the original rune and sets the edge of the paper alight.

Sandal's face glows as they watch a low blue flame consume the parchment, the edges curling up along the sides of the sword.  "Enchantment," he says,  in a  subdued and serious tone.  

Once the paper has burnt away the flame catches the silver line and dances along the length of the blade, burning softly.  At first, Fenris is transfixed by the flames,  but as he watches, a prickling sensation starts to creep from his stomach out along the lines of his tattoos. The lyrium in his veins hums in resonance with the enchantment.  Sweating and queasy, he steps backwards and averts his gaze.

When the flame dies down, Sandal takes a fragrant oil  and pours a few drops  onto a cloth of fine-looking fabric. He runs the oil along the  blade, cleaning off the sand and revealing an intricately etched pattern.  Sandal  hands the blade back for inspection.  

Fenris holds it up to the light of a lamp. It is as though fine lines of silver and gold have been inlaid into the metal, delicately spiraling around each other, extending tendrils across the width of the blade.

"Remarkable," is all that he can say.

Sandal and Bodhan beam with satisfaction.  

They are distracted by a thump from another corner of the house.  Aryana pales, her head snaps up.  Without a word to the others, she hurries across the foyer and into the study, closing the door behind her. Muffled angry voices filter through the closed door.

Fenris feels as though he is intruding, again. Before he has chance to gather his belongings and leave, Anders bursts out of the study, snarls at the sight of him and pushes past, heading out into the night. Aryana rushes out behind him, but instead of following, she simply watches Anders disappear into the darkness.

"Aryana…"

She looks at him, but a cold hard expression has settled onto her face.  He takes her silence as his cue to leave.

He walks slowly back to his abode. It has been a hot day and the flagstones are still warm beneath his feet. A soft rain damps down the dust and dirt and turns to steam as it hits the warm pavement.  The sharp edges of his normal life seem dulled by the muggy air.  He wants to lie down on the ground and let the warm rain wash away reality.

* * *

The next day Aryana comes  to his house looking tired and drawn. She pulls a purse from her robes.

"Varric sold the excess gear for us, so I've just come to drop off your share of the proceeds." She throws the purse over to him.

Fenris snatches it out of the air and puts it down on the table without even looking at it.

She makes no move to leave and he wonders if she wants to talk. He pauses in silence, considering whether to broach the subject of Anders unsettling behavior.

"Maker, Fenris, you really need a hair cut," she says suddenly  with a laugh.

He smiles slightly, self consciously brushing a long strand back from his face.

"I know, I know, you don't like strangers touching you, but perhaps you would allow me to trim it," she says.

"No," he replies, rather too quickly. For a split second he sees a glimmer of disappointment cross her face and immediately  regrets his reticence.

"On second thoughts you're right, if I don't cut it I'll have to start tying it back." He sighs. "With all the blades I have around here, there must be something suitable  for the job."

As he rummages in one of his trunks, Aryana takes a folded cloth from her robe. She lays it on the table and unfolds it, revealing a set of small knives,  each tied to the cloth with a green ribbon, lining them up in a row.

"Varric gave me these. I really don't know what they were designed for."  She pulls out a small blade on a bone handle. "This should work. Do you have any water up here?"

He fills a shallow bowl from a large pitcher in the corner of the room, places it near to a low-backed chair and then he sits down.

She stands behind him, puts a hand on each of his temples and runs her fingers through his hair. A tingle of pleasure spreads downwards, across his back. He  draws a deep breath, trying to relax into it. It is a soothing sensation but he feels self-conscious, and from that there is a tension he can't let go of. He imagines she can feel the pulsing of his blood in his veins that seems so horribly amplified in this still moment.  

There is a pause, then he feels her hands run through his hair again, this time they are wet, the moisture flattening his hair down. Her left hands  grasps a section  and pulls it taut. There is a gentle tug as she pulls the blade across it a few times with her right hand.

She leans forward a little, dangling one snowy lock of hair in front of him so he can see how much she has cut off.

"More? Less?" she asks.

He is conscious of the warm pressure of her body against his shoulders. "That looks about right," he replies, without really looking.

She continues pulling and cutting handfuls of hair. He lets his eyes close and the sensation becomes hypnotic.

"Hold still, I'm almost done," she says, placing her hands firmly on either side of his head. Then she rakes the hair backwards again, checking the length of the two sides for evenness. He hears her dip her hands into the water and then run them one last time through his locks.   A few drips of water start to run down the back of his neck;  she wipes them away, the backs of her fingers making short soft strokes against his neck.

The tingling in his back has spread further south and he shifts self-consciously in the chair. He redirects his thoughts to an armor upgrade he has been considering, but somehow, seconds later, his tortured mind is rewriting her touch as a caress.

"All done," her voice brings him back to reality. She sweeps his shoulders gently with her hands, brushing the cuttings onto the floor. "See, it wasn't so bad was it?"

He turns to look at her, and holds her gaze a little longer than he had meant to.

She sighs and glances toward the doorway.

He covers the awkwardness by reaching up and running his own hands through his hair.

"Now I can see my opponents, all the better for my self-preservation." One side of his mouth curls up. "Thank you."

She smiles back at him as she casts a glance around the room. "I don't suppose you have a brush or broom or anything like that?"

"I'm not going to allow you to clean up as well. I'll take care of it," he says. Having inadvertently removed any reason for her to linger, he suffers an immediate pang of regret.

Aryana  purses her lips. "I should get home."

"Anders will be wondering where you are."

She utters a dry, strained laugh. "I doubt he is even there. "

Fenris pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and then looks at her directly.

"I overheard… the other night. "

"I know."  Aryana, locks her gaze into the far distance. "Freedom for mages, I can't argue with his cause," she looks directly at him, "and neither should you."  

Then he has to let her leave, as he doesn't know what else to say.

* * *

"So you don't want any?" Isabela asks, rewrapping the dried leaves in the square of fabric and tucking them into her pouch. "Your loss, it's Castellano's finest blend."

"I'll stick to alcohol, thanks."

"Thought you could do with a little something extra, what with being so serious all the time." She glances around. "Well, mine's a beer, or whatever you've got …"

"Oh… ," he shakes his head in amusement, " ...why not."

As he is attending to her request, Isabela casts her eye around the room. An ornate box  catches her eye and she picks it up from the table, unable to resist her basic instinct she peeks inside. A thin red silk scarf catches her eye, the embroidery is distinctive and she remembers where she has seen it before, her eyes widen and she gasps.

"You.."

Fenris turns, bemused, and then when he sees what she has found his expression changes to apprehension.

"are… sentimental, or something."

"And you are prying into things that do not concern you."

"Is this like a trophy then? " her eyebrows rise, "Or a keepsake? Are you sorry you let that  gorgeous, dangerous apostate sweep her off her feet?"

"Gorgeous?" He scrunches his mouth in disgust. "If you want this drink, you'll need to change the subject."

She is quiet for a moment, and then sits down and takes the drink.  "So, you'll never guess what I saw in the city guards dorm last week… "

* * *

Sometimes it happens; they are outnumbered.  Fenris hasn't time to think, hasn't time to check on her as well as defend himself. He takes a hard blow to the head and his legs go weak. They are losing ground.

Varric fumbles in his pack, and the next minute a thick cloud of smoke rises up.  Varric and Isabela slip out of sight in the confusion. Fenris breaks away from his opponent, steps back toward Aryana and clasping her  hand, drags her  through the haze and down a narrow alleyway. Aryana is limping and so he slows, turns,  and pulls her into the relative shelter of  a small  alcoved doorway.

His arm goes around her waist, pulling them both back tightly into the small space. She gasps and his hand flies up to cover her mouth.  They stay still and silent. There is  a ruckus  in the nearby square as the smoke clears and the bandits try to pick up the trail of their prey.

As they wait long minutes for the coast to clear,  Fenris realizes that his grip on Aryana is unreasonably  tight, pressing her hard against his lean frame. Now that the danger has passed, everything suddenly catches up with him. Frustration rises up inside him in agonizing waves.

She pulls away enough to turn and face him. Eyes wide, she is searching his face.

"Aryana," he says, "forgive me."

She looks confused and  shakes her head slightly.

"Forgive me," he says again.

"For what?"

"Letting you go was a terrible mistake," he says slowly.

He feels relief. He looks at her. Now he has finally gotten the courage to speak, surely everything will be better between them.  

Minutes go by, but she doesn't reply. He looks down at the ground  to give her an extra second to respond, but there is only silence. Then he knows the admission has been too long coming and he wishes he had never spoken it. He feels numb.  He can't bear to stay here with his declaration hanging in the air between them. He walks past her, down the long alleyway, across the bustling thoroughfare and up the many flights of slate steps, until finally, finally he is home.

* * *

An empty wine glass sits on the table beside him, and a full one resides in his hand.  He is slumped in his chair, pleasantly numb. It is still light outside, and at this angle he can see dust in the air, illuminated by the rays of light streaming through the window. It is quite relaxing just to sit and watch.

He is almost asleep when he hears a noise,

"Did you forget something, " he says, turning.

But it is Aryana.

"I'm looking for Izzie," she says, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"You just missed her." He gestures towards the empty glass beside him.

He hears a mumbled expletive, under her breath.

"Anything I can help with?"

"Not unless you've developed lock picking skills I wasn't aware of."

"Is it urgent? "

"Not really," she sighs, "just trying to get a few things done."

"Stay and have a drink with me instead."

"You look like you've had enough."

"Some days, no amount is ever enough," he says softly.  

She grimaces, but sits down anyway.

He pours her a drink and then they sit quietly, surveying the bustle on the street below the window.

He meets her gaze, silently inviting her to say something, anything, to acknowledge what he told her in the heat of the moment, five long days ago.

"Don't look at me like that," she says, and he looks away.

But he can't help it and before he knows it he is searching for her gaze again.  

"Stop it," she says.

"I make you feel uncomfortable?"

She looks back at him and scowls.  

"I'll take that as a yes," he says.

She stands up and moves to the window.  He comes up behind her, so close he can almost feel her warmth, smell the soft leather of her attire.

"Aryana… ." His hand reaches out to her.  

She turns then, steeping slightly aside, so that his touch falls from her shoulder.  

"I waited a long time for you, Fenris." She speaks softly, eyes fixed on the ground, "…until I started to question my judgement, until I thought that there was no chance… . I had to move on."  She reaches for his hand and her voice wavers. "I  have another commitment now.  It's too late."

He wants to speak, but there is a tight knot in his throat. He pulls her in, cradles her face against his own, breathing softly into the side of her neck. At first she is rigid against him, then, as his hands stroke her hair, he feels the tension in her body start to dissipate. He closes his eyes, afraid to move lest he break the spell.

Eventually she pulls away. "I have to do the right thing Fenris. " But her voice is flat.  

She starts to move toward the door and a flash of panic grips him.

He moves after her and takes a hold of her arm. "Tell me that you don't still want me and I'll leave you alone, I'll leave the group, get away from here."

She looks surprised and shakes her head slightly.  

"Tell me." His hand touches her chin, directing her gaze towards him.  He can hardly breathe.

It seems like an eternity before she finally replies.  "If I still wanted you, do you think that I would tell you? Do you think I would be able to tell you that when I've made a promise to another man? " She speaks slowly, as though the words drag reluctantly from her soul.  

He steps back and lets his hand fall to his side. "Do you want me to leave?"    

"I don't want you to leave, Fenris." And she looks at him in that way that she does, with glistening eyes, and mouth drawn into a tight line of self control.

A wave of hopelessness builds in his stomach, and this time, when she moves towards the door, he lets her go.


	3. Chapter 3

"I can't feel my legs. "

The voice sounds weak and distant. After a moment, he realizes it is his own.

The smell of burning assaults his nostrils. The rough edge of stone steps cut into his back. There is a warm wetness across his abdomen. The absence of any sensation below his waist registers in the back of his mind but invokes no emotional response.

It is dark, but his eyes are open. This is new. Fear grips him and it takes some force of will to calm his mind. He flexes his right hand and finds that it is still wrapped around the hilt of his sword; he feels comforted, despite knowing that he is in no fit state to wield the weapon. He tries to sit up but waves of nausea and pain engulf him. When he lays his head back down, the sickness retreats.

Images filter into his consciousness: an explosion, the Chantry; wild defiance in Anders expression; Orsino's hand on Aryana's arm, his eyes pleading. Then there had been Sebastian, looking to him for support, but all he could do was look to her .

The images cycle around his head, faster and faster until they blur together, then the pain and discomfort start to fade into the background. A jolt of panic and awareness bring him back to the present, he must not lose consciousness again.

He lies there for the longest time, focusing on the pain to remain conscious. He no longer thinks of what has happened, nor of his injuries. He strains to listen for a sign, any sign that Aryana is still alive. It becomes hard to judge the passage of time. A cold numbness spreads up to his shoulders. He tries to guess how long he has been lying here and how much longer he might last. Then he hears a gasp. A hand takes his own and warm lips brush his forehead.

"Don't move Fenris."

"Isabela."

"I'm here." Then she raises her voice. "Aryana! Ana …over here."

He hears other voices, distorted and distant. There is shouting and scuffling, then there are hands on him, probing his torso.

"No, no. " He utters a feeble protest as an unbearable pain engulfs him. But then a moment later there is warmth, and there is relief.

"I've got it, I've got the worst of it. OK, let me get his legs, help me Isabela, can you get this off him… ?"

He feels them lifting something from him, straightening him out, and then warmth. Sensation and some faint residual pain flood into his legs. Now two pairs of hands are on him, reaching around his back and under his arms, raising him to his feet.

"We have to get out of here Fenris," says Aryana. "I've done what I can right now, can you walk?"

Now that he is standing the pain in his head is terrible, but somehow he manages to nod.

"Take my hand," she says.

He feels Isabela take his other hand. He stumbles along in the darkness as they pull him far too quickly along unseen pathways. Something is still wrong, his lungs are on fire and the back of his throat is burning, but from the cacophony of noises all around him now, he knows there is no time to stop. He hears a heavy door open, and then he is inside … somewhere. A dog barks loudly and he hears the clatter of arms and armor around him.

"Barricade that door, just in case." Aryana is shouting, both she and Isabela let go of his hands.

His head is starting to spin, and the voices around him have become muddled and incomprehensible. The last thing he is aware of is the taste of blood in his mouth and its warm wetness as it pours down his neck and onto his chest.  


* * *

He feels wonderful: rested, relaxed and comfortable. There are soft blankets under his hands, a pillow beneath his head and the subtle smell of her on the sheets. He opens his eyes and then he remembers. He can see nothing but a fuzzy lightness on the right side of him and darkness on the left. He is in Aryana's room; despite his lack of sight, he knows this with complete certainty. He senses another presence in the room.

"Aryana?"

The bed dips as somebody sits next to him.

A hand cups his face and soft lips brush his.

"Isabela."

"So you can tell the difference."

He reaches out and grabs her wrist, gripping it with a sense of urgency. "What happened? "

"You don't remember?"

"I remember an explosion, Anders; then Aryana's face, and Sebastian's." He sighs.

"Meredith is dead, and Orsino. Anders has … gone, I don't know where. Aryana won't say much. " She prizes his hand from her wrist.

"It's chaos out there. Aveline and Cullen are holding onto order with the city guard and a few of the Templars. The magi have fled in various directions and some of the Templars are missing. We had to secure this place against a few stray Templars who want to dispense their own brand of justice."

With her words, pieces of memories start to filter back. With a start, he thinks to ask, "Are you all right?"

"I am, my injuries were less complex than yours, apparently." He feels the bed raise a little as she stands up. "Do you want to talk to Ana?"

"Please," he says, weakly.

Her footsteps fade and after a few minutes they are replaced with the approaching steps of somebody else.

"You're awake." Stating the obvious, Aryana replaces Isabela on the bed.

"Ana."

Her hand in his, she rubs his thumb with her own. "I'm sorry I dragged you back here still injured Fen. I think I've fixed everything now, ...except the optic nerves. The vision thing is beyond me, and Merrill's healing skills are even more limited than mine."

"Fass bahari!" A cold pang of anguish crosses his chest. He bites the inside of his mouth. After a few minutes he is able to speak again. "I don't think I really appreciated what Anders brought to the party until now." When she doesn't reply, he continues, "Where is he?"

She sighs heavily, lets go of his hand and walks away from the bed. When she finally replies, her voice is so quiet he can barely hear her. "Probably Sundermount. He left with Zevran, they were going to lie low there for a few days and then Zevran was going to take him somewhere safe, he didn't tell me where."

Fenris swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and places his head in his hands in despair. "I'll be dead within the week."

"No Fen!"

"You know it's true," he says, a little more harshly than he had intended. "Anders has created some powerful enemies for us, they're surely circling in as we sit here." He lifts his head to face in the direction of her voice. "Without my sight, it won't be long before somebody takes me out."

"I have scouts out, in case any of the master spirit healers are still here." The tone of her voice is flat.

"Don't try to give me false hope," he says slowly, " Isabela told me that the magi have fled the city. I can take the truth."

He feels her hand in his again and she pulls him up, her arms folding him into an embrace. He wraps his arms around her, tangling his fingers in her long hair. He can't see her, but her face is alive in his memory: the delicate beauty of her long dark hair and pale skin hiding a maelstrom of destructive power.

It is several minutes before she pulls back, but when she does her voice is decisive.

"If we move fast, we can probably catch up with Anders. "

He is stunned and takes a moment to reply. "Travel now, with a blind man? I'm a liability. I can't let you do it. "

"I've lost enough. I'm not losing you too," she says, matter-of-factly. "I'll send up something for you to eat and drink. Prepare yourself as best you can. We'll leave within the hour."


	4. Chapter 4

A soft warm rain flattens Fenris' hair against his head and soaks him through to the skin. One of the damp straps of his armor is chaffing his skin, cutting into him with every swaying step of his mount. He loosens his grip on Isabela's waist, shifting his weight to try and find a more comfortable position. He can feel the horses's muscles working hard as they track up a steep hill. The animal starts panting and Isabela grunts, "We're too heavy for the poor mare."

Finally they reach the top of the slope and the land levels off. Isabela lets the horse walk slowly for a little while, settling into a rhythmic motion that is almost soothing. "Can you believe we're chasing after Anders, after all that's happened?" she says. He feels her twist slightly as she tries to direct her speech toward him. "Aryana's really anxious about it."

"Anxious?"

"She's worried he'll think she's come back to him, raise his hopes and then disappoint him."

Fenris is considering this when he hears the other horses break into a gallop ahead of them.

"Hold on," says Isabela. As she spurs the horse, Fenris leans into her body, his arms wrapping more tightly about her. After a while they slow again as the terrain becomes uneven and fast passage is impossible. Once they are on an even keel, Isabela resumes the banter. "Hey Fen, if this doesn't work out, at least you've got skills to fall back on. The Blooming Rose would kill to get you, or you could be my cabin boy."

He is in no mood for teasing and he sighs, wondering again how much longer it will be before they stop. Before he can ask the question, they come to a halt. Fenris is relieved to dismount, sitting astride the horse has proven unexpectedly uncomfortable and he is aching in places he has never ached before.

Varric says, "Pull the horses into the entrance and tie them up. We'll head straight down."

Fenris waits while the others tether the animals to a post just inside of the cavern, and then they begin their descent. Progress is painfully slow. Fenris can be led quite quickly on the level paths but the uneven steps are hard to negotiate. He stumbles and curses, tired and frustrated. When they come into the large lower cavern, there are no sounds of life.

"Anders, Zev?" Aryana's voice echoes coldly from the walls of the vast cavern, but there is no reply. "Zevran?" she projects her voice much more forcefully.

"Let me and Varric look around." Isabela cuts in with an unusually sensitive suggestion.

As Isabela and Varric's footsteps fade into the distance, Fenris and Aryana sit down in silence on the rough ground. After a while Fenris hears footsteps approaching, but it sounds more like two people than four.

"Well?" he says, prompting Aryana.

"No," is all she replies, in a dull tone.

The footsteps stop somewhere in front of him.

"They were here," Varric says, "there are food scraps, a few of their things. They can't have been gone long and I don't think they have horses. "

"But we don't know where they were heading." Aryana says.

"Jason," says Isabela, sounding pleased with herself.

"Jason?" says Aryana.

"They left a ring lying out on a table, on a playing card, the three of hearts," says Isabela. "The ring belongs to a man I know, Jason."

"You know an awful lot of men Rivaini," says Varric. "Which one is Jason?"

"Jason Cousland, Zevran fought alongside him. Anders knew him after the blight. Leaving his ring is a message."

"The Hero of Ferelden." says Aryana. "I didn't know you'd met him."

" 'The Hero of the Pearl' I always called him," says Isabela.

"Dare I ask?" says Varric.

"I'll take that as my cue," says Isabela. "The night I met Jason was cold and particularly stormy. I'd put in to port to ride out the bad weather. When we docked in Denerim I always took the crew to The Pearl. Do you know The Pearl?" she says.

"We're not some bunch of choir boys," says Varric, "get on with the story."

"Well, some of the wardens were in town. We'd heard about them and half the city seemed to think they were a bad lot, so naturally I was interested in meeting them. They'd all piled into The Pearl, battle sore and ready for some hard drinking. I couldn't believe it when I saw that my old friend Zevran was with them. Anyway, he brought them over to meet me, and introductions led to a few drinks. They were an odd crowd - no wonder Jason wanted to get wasted." She takes a deep breath. "Anyway, he started flirting with me and I told him I'd take him back to my ship if he could beat me at Wicked Grace."

"Not like you to play hard to get," says Varric.

"Oh he was magnificent, I would have taken him home anyway, but I didn't tell him that," she continues. "Zevran wanted to join the game. He was too good for us - damn nimble fingers - and he could hold his liquor. I thought elves were supposed to be lightweights?"

"I think everyone drinks a lot around you," says Fenris.

"Hey!" she retorts, in mock annoyance. "Anyhow, in a last ditch attempt to stay in the game, Jason put down his ring as a wager. Bad judgment. He lost. Zevran said he'd give the ring back if he could come with us to my cabin."

"Hang on. You and Zevran were in a threesome with the Grey Warden?" says Varric.

"Wardens are not monks, you know," says Isabela. "Do you want to hear this story or not?"

"Just … the edited version," says Aryana.

"Spoilsport," says Varric.

"All right…well, afterwards, Jason let Zevran keep the ring anyway, said he deserved it. You get the picture. Zevran has worn it on his left hand ever since."

"The three of hearts," Varric snorts with amusement.

"Are you sure it's the same ring?" asks Aryana.

"Yes! It's one of a kind. Look at it! Oh sorry Fen… well the rest of you, look at it. JC. Jason Cousland. It's very distinctive, and …well I was there, I remember it."

"If this is a message, it's rather cryptic," says Aryana.

"The Templars are trying to track Anders so they couldn't leave anything obvious. But this ring, Zev knows this means something to me. He left it in case we came after them. He knew I'd recognize it. I think they're going to meet Jason."

"The Hero of Ferelden disappeared. Are you suggesting that they know where to find him? Even if they do, we certainly don't," says Varric.

"He's probably at Highever. He wanted to go back there after the war, keep a low profile for a while. Zevran kept in touch with him, we talked about it a bit. I don't know for sure, but it's worth a try."

"Sounds like a wild goose chase," says Varric.

There is a long pause before Aryana speaks. "We have to try. Fenris and I have to try. Are you with us?"

"Of course I'm with you Hawke," says Varric, gruffly.

"Damn right," says Isabela, "and I'd certainly I'd like to see Jason again."

"All right then," says Aryana, relief evident in her tone. "It's late, we should make camp here and press on at first light."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They set up their bedrolls in the entrance to the caverns, close to the horses but sheltered from the wind and the rain.

"At least it's not cold," says Aryana.

"No excuse to snuggle up. Damn!" says Isabela.

"Don't you ever get tired Rivaini?" says Varric.

"I have a special reserve of energy for that. Doesn't everyone?" Isabela replies, sounding genuinely puzzled. When she hears no response, she changes tack. "Right then, " she says, "who's for a game of Wicked Grace, Card Raider, Strip Sevens?"

Varric grunts, "After the story you just told, I'm not sure we dare."

"You, my dear dwarf, are in absolutely no danger of having your honor tarnished by me."

Varric chortles. "Not sure if I'm insulted or relieved. Card Raider then, just a couple of hands, low stakes."

Fenris drags his bedroll away from the noise, feeling his way along the cave wall.

"May I join you?" Aryana's voice materializes close by.

He nods, and hears the shuffle and rustle of another bedroll being laid out close to his.

"I'm not in the mood for cards," she says.

"What are you in the mood for?"

"Drinking," she says firmly. "I brought wine, want some?"

He nods, and hears rustling, then the sound of liquid being poured. She places a cup in his hand, guiding his fingers to the handle. He takes a sip and rolls the wine around his mouth before swallowing. It is a full bodied red wine, slightly tannic, but very welcome.

A shriek of delight cuts across their quiet moment.

"Sounds like Isabela just won a hand," says Fenris.

"Let's hope that's all it was," says Aryana.

His back is cold against the rock and he shifts to pull a blanket up behind him. He feels her lean in to help, sitting close and tugging the cloth into position about both of their shoulders. He sits back against the wall and in their quiet of their corner of the cave he hears a small sigh.

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

"How fragile life is."

"Yes," he replies, softly.

"A few months ago I had everything." She sighs again. "Now I feel lost, adrift on some desolate mountainside with no home to go back to."

"The house is still there. You can go back."

"I can't go back. I can't go back to the life I had."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, then Fenris airs a thought that has been plaguing him. "Anders and I, we never got along. I wouldn't blame him if he refused to help me."

"He won't refuse."

"You seem so sure."

"I know him. I know that part of him is still sane, still sweet and decent," she sighs. "If I weren't sure of that I wouldn't be here."

He grimaces. " I might not seem it, but I'm grateful for this. I know it will be difficult to see him again. "

"Yes," she says quietly.

"You miss him?"

There is such a long pause that he wonders if she is going to answer. He is on the brink of changing the subject when she says, "I miss the way he used to be, passionate but not so obsessive. And he was funny, he used to be full of quips and jokes. All of that got smothered by the grim persona of Justice. It's only been a few days since he left, but I lost him a long time ago. "

He hears her refill her own cup before continuing. "This will sound awful, but it was almost a relief when he did something so decisive. Terrible as it was, what he did ... the waiting, the wondering… that was worse. I felt it building up for months. " She takes a deep breath. "I was treading on eggshells around him at home. The slightest thing would set him off. Do you know what it's like to live like that?"

"Living with Danarius was the same, " he says.

"Was it? " she asks.

"It was terrible. No surprises there."

"No, of course, you told me some of it before. I want to know, but I'm not sure if you want to talk about it."

"Yes. No." He shakes his head, but then forces himself to continue. "I don't know. I owe you…I mean I owe it to you to explain. "

"You don't, you don't have to say anything," she says.

"No, but I want to. I do want to," he says, breathing deeply. "Danarius was a nightmare. I lived my life ever watchful for the slightest sign of displeasure, any nuance that betrayed a bad mood. Any little thing could set him off. I once looked at Danrius 'the wrong way'. He flayed me so hard I couldn't walk properly for two days."

The blood is pounding in his head. He puts down the cup and presses his fingertips against his temples. "Another time, I broke something. It was a precious bowl that he liked. " He lifts his head and steeples his fingers. "I was tired. He'd kept me up all night guarding him during his bacchanalia. I had to take his things back with us, back to the main house. " He grimaces. "I had it in my hands, but I was so tired. I saw it slip from my grasp as though in slow motion, yet I couldn't move my hands fast enough to catch it. The ground was hard. I saw it hit the stone and for a second I thought it might not break, but as it hit the ground a shard of porcelain broke off. It rolled along the stones and stopped near his feet. I stared at it for a few minutes, then dared to raise my gaze. "

His heart thumping he continues, "He looked at me, but instead of anger, there was something else. It was almost as if he was delighted, delighted to have an excuse to punish me. He pushed me down and held me there with his magic while he forced himself on me. "

He hears her gasp.

"I suppose there were many occasions when he might have killed me, except that he had this weakness, he needed the gratification that he got from me. "

He holds his empty cup in her direction, and feels her hand cover his to steady the cup as she refills it. After a long drink, he continues. "He liked to show me off to his friends, liked to watch me with them. The worst thing was how they tainted pleasurable things. They knew how to get the best performance from their pets. Sometimes I was repulsed by my own responses."

He feels her hand close over his again and this time she doesn't let go.

"Pleasure and pain, attraction and abuse, they all got connected in my head." Even though he cannot see her, the tension between them is palpable. Her hand tightens slightly on his, encouraging him to continue.

"Intimacy is hard for me. "

"I didn't realize. I'm sorry. "

He shakes his head slightly, "I don't want pity. I just want you to understand. I don't know if I'll ever be able to respond normally."

She sits in contemplative silence for a few minutes. Then she says, "When I met you and I saw a spark of something in your eyes, I allowed myself to fantasize about you. Huge mistake. The thought of you took hold. I could think of nothing else day and night for months." She forces a laugh. "Somebody told me it was a psychological thing, misappropriation of desire. Something to do with the danger we all kept facing together. I didn't like that, being told that somehow it wasn't real. Then when you left, I thought they were right, that it had just been a moment of weakness with nothing real beneath it."

"That's what you thought?"

"Well what was I supposed to think?" She clears her throat. "Perhaps it would be easier for you with someone else? Someone who's not a mage."

He puts the drink on the ground beside him, and places his face in his hands.

"Fenris?"

He shakes his head slightly.

"What is it?"

He takes a deep breath, and lifts his head again. "I… "

"What?"

"…there has been someone… ." Now it is torture being unable to see her expression, unable to gauge her reaction.

"Isabela."

"You knew!"

"You think me that stupid?" she says. "Of course I knew. I was with Anders, so what was I to say? You didn't volunteer the information, and I didn't want to hear about it. "

"I really needed … something, and she treated it lightly. It was … some time ago. Everything I said to you - I meant everything I said."

"So, was it better with her?"

"No, no." he says. "Not better. Easier I suppose, because it wasn't serious. "

His words feel clumsy, and they hang in the air between them. His stomach knots with the frustration of being unable to read her face. He wants to say more, but he hears the sound of the others approaching. Aryana lets go of his hand abruptly, and the delicate moment is lost.

"Hey, we want to bed down now. You kids mind if we cosy up?" Varrics voice interrupts them.

"Move over." Isabela cuts in.

Despite the fatigue and the wine, Fenris lies awake long after the others have gone to sleep. He thinks about what might happen if they cannot find someone to cure his blindness, wonders how long it will be before he can no longer picture her face. Once etched into your mind, do these image memories stay with you forever? He doesn't think so. He'll lose this just as he lost his other memories ...of before.


	5. Chapter 5

Plink … plink … plink …

Ugh. Dripping water. Half asleep, Fenris turns over and tries to ignore the sound. But now he is awake he notices how dry his mouth feels. Cotton mouth. Shouldn't have drunk so much last night. He opens his eyes. To nothing. And then he remembers.

"Morning!" Isabela's voice is annoyingly perky for this time of day. "Tea?" she asks.

"Please," he says.

His head is muzzy. He sits up and runs his fingers through his hair. He takes a deep breath; the morning air is cool and dank, it must have rained last night. The smell of damp fur permeates the cave, and he hears the snickering of horses and scuffling of feet nearby. They must be almost ready for the off. He is not accustomed to being the last to rise, not accustomed to feeling so _bad_ in the morning.

Isabela takes his hand and guides it to a cup of warm tea. He takes long grateful sips. An increase in the flurry of noise and activity indicates that the others are preparing to break camp. He tries to stand, his knuckles grazing against the damp wall of the cave as he struggles to his feet.

"You want some help with ablutions?" Isabela says.

"I'm blind, not an invalid," he snaps in reply. Isabela says nothing. His stomach twists. "If you could bring me a bowl of water, then I'll manage, thanks." He says, in a subdued tone.

A few minutes later, a bowl of water is set down next to him. Isabela's fingers wrap around his hand, guiding him to the location of the bowl. He kneels before the it, plunging his hands into the water. It is warm. She has thought to spare him a little discomfort, with all the trouble that entails. He feels another flush of shame for snapping at her. He lowers his head down to the water, splashing handfuls of it over his head and arms. He scrubs his face with his open palms, but it does not cleanse the dark despair that is within him.

"Ready soldier?" Aryana's soft voice materializes beside him.

"Ready," he says, and follows the sound of her footsteps out toward the horses. He can hear Varric and Isabela bickering about a saddle, and next to him Aryana sighs before raising her voice. "Let's go!"

* * *

The day becomes a blur of discomfort. They stop every so often; Fenris moves from Isabela to Aryana and back, spreading the burden of a second rider between the horses.

The fourth time they slow down, he is puzzled, as it seems too soon to swap riders again. But then he feels it, the tension in Isabela's arms, and the sound of something - heavy footsteps running towards them. A sharp intake of breath is followed by mumbled words as Isabela slides quickly from the horse. He hears the clean swipe of her blades as they are unsheathed, the low hum of Aryana's incantation, and the snap of Bianca, releasing a bolt.

Lyrium pounds within his veins, and he feels his body light up, hot and tense, ringing with power. He slides to the ground, draws his sword and presses his back against the horse, facing out towards an unseen enemy. The horse is nervous, skittish and bucks, running off into the distance. Fenris concentrates, focusing on the sounds around him.

He hears the slight rush of air. He turns, swings into the void and connects. A split second later, he has a man by the throat, extracting deadly retribution for the attack. The moment unfolds in slow motion and he feels a flash of exhilaration at downing an enemy against the odds.

He swings his blade in a wide arc. Somebody yelps and he hears them take a step back. He guesses there are three of them, maybe four. The noise of fighting is getting louder around him and the subtle sounds he is relying on are becoming harder to hear. He hears something in front of him and instinctively his blade comes up in a parry, connecting and countering. A gurgling cry tells him he has just improved his odds, and for a second he is distracted by the victory. Then a cut slashes across his leg, forcing him to drop to one knee. He cries out in anger, pain and frustration. A boot connects with his sternum, and a sharp pain assails his mid-section. He cannot breathe. He takes a blow to the back of his head, and then another, before he turns and parries again, staggering to a standing position.

His lip curls and he concentrates. He knows that they are taking the measure of him, and that this quiet moment gives them the advantage, a chance to coordinate their attack. Before he can complete the thought, blades swing in from both sides. He ducks and sweeps his sword low, taking the legs of one of them. _Go down you bastards, go down_. He turns to grab the other one, but he is no match for a sighted opponent. He feels a heavy blade slice across his back, and falls to the ground as his legs give out again beneath him.

In a split second his opponent is upon his back, pining him down with the enormous weight of their armor. Cold metal fingers grab his hair and push his face into the mud. He gasps for breath as his head is pulled up and then smashed into the ground for a second time. There is a flash of heat down his back and into his legs and the roaring of blood in his ears. Just as he feels himself on the brink of unconsciousness there is a thump. The weight falls off him and then there is only the sound of his own gasping and choking against a backdrop of silence.

The voices of his companions materialize around him. He hears Aryana attending to Varric, and moments later he feels the warmth of her magic upon his back.

"Templars." he gasps.

"Aye," says Isabela.

"They likely have a lead on Anders," says Aryana.

"Yeah. I'd wager that we're heading in the right direction," says Varric. "Just glad that Choir Boy wasn't with this lot."

"Indeed," says Aryana.

"Drag them off the road," says Varric.

"Why bother?" says Aryana.

"Oh come on. It won't take long and I really don't want to advertise what happened here. Better that other Templars passing by don't see this."

"Cleaning up wastes time," says Aryana. But then he hears the scraping of bodies being dragged and he knows that, for once, Varric has won.

He feels so battered and worn that he can hardly get back on the horse. He knocks back a stamina draft, but it hardly seems to make any difference. _I swear these things get less effective, the more you take of them_ , he thinks, despairingly.

It is getting cool and he senses that the light must be fading. The wind has gotten up, adding to their discomfort as they ride hard along the rough road. When there is some distance between them and the Templar bodies, they stop and tether their horses in the shelter of a low line of trees.

A fire is built and Fenris sits close to it, the warmth on his face in stark contrast with the chill wind clawing at his back.

Footsteps approach, and he knows that it is Aryana. He has started to recognize each of the party by the weight of their footsteps and their gait - each having a unique pattern of sound that, with the other tells, the subtle sighs, the cracking knuckles, identify each of them to him.

"Eat this, it's actually quite good." Aryana hands him a dish and a spoon, and he hears her sit down next to him.

He turns the spoon around in his hand a few times, then takes a bite of the stew.

"I've set up two tents. You can share with Izz," she says, then she sighs.

"Thank you, " he replies.

They sit in silence for a few minutes as they eat. The stew is rich and tender, he has never had such a good meal on the road before.

"How did you manage this?" he asks.

"Varric made it, " she replies.

"A talent he has kept hidden until now."

He puts the bowl down beside him. Strength seems to be seeping back into him now that he has eaten. He hears Aryana get up and throw some more wood on the fire. The fresh wood is slightly damp and hisses furiously as it hits the flames.

When she returns, she sits closer to him than before. Her thigh grazes his, and his arm instinctively goes out around her shoulder, pulling her against him. He feels her relax into his side, her hand against the small of his back. They sit in silence, and for a moment he allows himself to feel at peace with it all, concentrating on the warmth of her body against him.

Their quiet moment is punctuated by footsteps again. But these are not the plodding heavy, short steps of Varric, nor are they the light swagger of Isabela. These long and graceful steps stop right in front of them.

His hand tightens on Aryana's shoulder, but he feels no tension in her posture.

"So, it seems that you could not stay away. It is always thus, beautiful women follow me from one end of Thedas to the other. "

Fenris' hand slips from Aryana's shoulder as she stands up.

"Zevran!" she says.

"Champion," he replies.

"Zevran!" says Isabela, her voice materializing close by.

"My dear Isabela," he says, "I knew I could count on you to put things together."

"I can't believe it took us this long to catch up with you." says Varric.

"Where is Anders?" says Aryana.

"Right behind me," says Zevran.

After a moment, there are more footsteps, and a sharp intake of breath from Aryana.

"Am I forgiven then?" Anders says slowly, his voice barely audible.

"By me, yes, " she says, and then "Sebastian, no. Never. "

"Half of Kirkwall is after me. I know. " Then the tone of his voice becomes more hopeful. "Why did you come?"

"Can we talk privately? " she says.

"Come with me," he says softly. And then they are gone.

 

* * *

Fenris waits. There is nowhere for him to go and so he sits in silence as the others mill around impatiently. The impenetrable darkness of his blindness is starting to close in on him, and all at once he feels an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. He stares directly towards the fire, willing himself to see even the slightest flicker of the light he knows is in front of him. They've been gone a long time. He should try to sleep but he can't drag himself away from this spot. Then finally, when he thinks he can bear it no longer, he feels a hand around his wrist, biding him stand.

"What's happened?" he says.

"Anders is preparing, he'll try to help you." Aryana says, but her voice is flat, as though she hardly cares about it now.

"Are you all right?" he says, but there is no reply.

She leads him a short distance. The ground beneath his feet changes to a sand-covered stone, and he knows that they are entering a cave. It feels good to be out of the wind and in relative warmth. They walk a little further until his shin hits something hard and low on the ground. He bites his lip, and suppresses a curse.

"Lie down." Anders says, and then a hand is upon his arm, guiding him, sitting him down on a low cot. He lies down on his back.

He can hear the voices of the others as they enter the cave. Anders calls over to them. "You need to extinguish most of the torches, dim the light in here."

Then there are soft, gentle hands either side of his head. Anders must be kneeling behind him. Fenris can feel Anders' warm breath close to his face, as his hands trail feather-light touches across Fenris' eyelids.

"Ummm," Anders makes a contemplative noise and adjusts his hands.

"What?" says Fenris.

Anders continues to trace small circles across his temples, then pulls his hands away. "Am I going to regret this?" he says, so quietly it is almost a whisper.

"What?"

"You know exactly what I mean," he says.

Fenris' heart starts to pound. He says nothing.

"Am I going to regret this?" Anders says again, slowly enunciating each word.

Fenris shakes his head slightly, almost imperceptibly. "No," he says, "no, _don't" . Don't ask me that_ , he thinks, and in the end he hardly knows what response he has given.

And then Anders is gone, and he thinks for a moment that he hasn't done anything, or that it didn't work. Then suddenly he is blinking away a hazy film, and there is a flicker of movement to the side of him. He turns his head, and Anders is sitting, ashen faced, next to him.

"Fenris!"

He turns, and there are Aryana and Zevran the bleary outlines of their faces turned towards him, waiting, expectant. He gasps softly and nods towards them.

Aryana comes to stand by Anders, she places a hand on his shoulder.

"We're all on the same side, aren't we?" Anders says, to no response. Then he turns to Fenris, "Your vision is probably a little blurred right now?"

"Yes."

"You need to sleep, your body has to finish the healing on its own."

"I don't know how to thank you." Fenris says.

"Don't you?" says Anders. He turns to the table beside him, and puts something into a cup before handing it to Fenris.

He downs the draft, and slips into a blissful oblivion.

 

* * *

 

When he awakens, the cave is quiet. He blinks a few times, taking in the prone figures of his companions, the jumble of possessions all around the cave. Everything is clear and sharp, even in the dim light.

He gets up, and picks his way quietly across the cave, walking out into the morning air. The bright sunlight is overwhelming and he raises a hand to shield his eyes. After a moment, his eyes adjust and he takes in the full splendor of the panorama laid out before him; the sparkle of sunlight on a distant lake; the vivid green of the grass, rolling into the distance. Relief and elation swell up inside him. Tears of joy reach his eyes, just barely held back by force of will.

He senses somebody behind him. He turns and there _she_ is, her face lit up with happiness.

His hand goes to her shoulder as he meets her gaze. "You're beautiful," he says.

But then he looks past her, to another pair of eyes, accusative and resentful.

Fenris' hand drops to his side, and he walks back into the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

Aryana stands for a long time, looking out over the valley. The sun has yet to banish the chill of night, but the cold is welcome, cutting through the surreal haze of the last few days. She drops her gaze, idly appraising the dewy grass at her feet. Damp is soaking through her thin boots; they'd left Kirkwall in such a hurry that she had forgotten to attend to the small matter of oiling the leather. She gives a small, quiet sigh; she's going to be uncomfortable today in more ways than one.

"Are you going back to Kirkwall?" says Anders quietly, closing in behind her.

"Yes, Kirkwall, what's left of it," she says, half turning her head towards him, before resuming her outward gaze. "You're set on Highever?"

Anders stops beside her, leaning heavily on his staff. "I have to find Jason."

"Care to tell me why?" she says. _Or is this another one of your secrets?_ She bites back the words, but fancies that he hears them anyway.

"Jason knows of a safe haven for magi, or so he told Zevran," Anders rubs the bridge of his nose, frowning slightly.

She raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like a long shot."

"I'm used to poor odds," Anders replies.

She glances sideways at him and catches his gaze. _Oh those eyes!_ They remind her of how easily she is pulled in. She breathes in deeply to clear her head, but the dank and fetid air does nothing to dispel the bitterness inside of her.

"You know the Templars have locked down Kirkwall's docks, they'll have men in all the ports up and down the coast as well," she says, with much more of an impatient tone than she had intended.

"One or two maybe, but with Zev, I have a chance."

"What did you ever do to inspire such loyalty from him?"

"We both fought with Jason in our time, it's a kind of bond." He takes a deep breath, "Zevran doesn't judge - he understands desperation. " He looks at her sharply.

Aryana's stomach twists into a knot. _Damn,_ she thinks.

Anders sits down wearily on a rock, staring deliberately into the distance. "If you're leaving, just go quickly," he says.

 _I'm not sure I can,_ she thinks, and she doesn't move.

When she doesn't respond, Anders sighs, and continues, "With luck we'll be in Ferelden by nightfall."

She gives a dry, forced laugh. "Just two of you - I don't think you'll make it to Ferelden."

"That's not your concern."

"Of course it is," she says.

He sighs. "I'm trying to let you off the hook. " He stands and faces her. "It's all I can do to make things better."

"You can't make it better," she says, and waits for him to say something more, but there is only silence.

Her cold fingers pull unconsciously at a lock of her long hair, twirling it anxiously. The expression on Anders face softens and with a start, she realizes that he can read her, completely.

"We'll see you safely onto a ship before we leave," she says, curtly, dropping her hand to her side.

Anders shakes his head slightly, raising a hand in protest.

She picks up her staff and turns around. "For _my_ conscience, _my_ peace of mind," she says, "then that's it, that's the _end_ of it."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inside the cave the others are packing up, almost ready to leave.

"All right?" says Fenris, his eyes catching hers, then looking past her.

She glances behind her, but Anders has not followed her back in.

"We'll see them to the harbor, then head back to Kirkwall - yes?" she says.

Fenris nods. Varric glances at Isabela, and then gives a curt nod.

"What is it? " says Aryana, following Varric's gaze.

"I've decided to make the crossing with them," says Isabela. "I've been longing to get back on the ocean, and I want to see Jason again."  
She looks back towards the entrance of the cave where Anders is standing, "The thing is, I understand him, what he did. I don't feel the same about it as you do."

"You think me lacking in understanding?" Aryana says cooly, picking up her pack.

"Oh come on! How many people have you killed, this week, or last week?" says Isabela, taking hold of her arm.

"It's more than that. He _blind-sided_ me. After all the years I lived with him, he went behind my back. If you don't understand that then I can't possibly explain it to you," says Aryana wearily, shrugging the Rivaini's hand from her arm and walking slowly out to the horses.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Anders and Zevran have no horses, so now they have to double-up on all of the mounts. The harbor is a short ride away, and really, there is no other practical option. The horses snort and paw the ground, as if vocalizing their objections.

 _I don't like this any more than you do,_ Aryana thinks, her hand on the mane of her horse, patting and soothing it as she looks at the circle of expectant eyes upon her. She pulls herself up into the saddle and, ignoring the expectant looks of Anders and Fenris, holds out a hand to Varric.

She rides hard, setting a punishing pace with pangs of guilt for the poor animals, but a strong need to be _done_ with all of this. It is barely noon when they pull up at the ridge of a hill and cast their eyes down the steep slope to the harbor sprawled below them. It is a small settlement, a few low buildings cluster close to the dock, and a large boat that bobs gently on the waves.

Zevran holds out his arm, indicating that they should go no further. They dismount and pull the horses under the cover of trees.

"I should go down first, scope out the situation. I can't imagine the Templars haven't considered us fleeing by this route," he says.

"I'll come," says Isabela.

"One alone has a better chance of going undetected," says Zevran. "I'll be back shortly. Stay out of sight."

They move back over the brow of the hill to where they will be hidden from the view of those down in the harbor. Fenris lays down in the long grass, closing his eyes. Varric and Isabela pull out some food and offer it around.

Aryana watches as Anders wanders away from the group. He crouches down in the shade of the trees, his deft hands plucking the long yellow stamen of one plant and the pale green leaves of another, tucking them into a small pouch on his belt. She remembers when he'd shown her how to use those plants to treat a wound. He'd smiled at her, a real joy in his eyes the first time she'd used the raw power inside of her to _heal_ somebody instead of tear them apart. _Funny how things turn out._ A wave of anger rises up inside of her, and she brings her focus back to the present.

She sits cross-legged on the grass, looking up at the brilliant blue sky, punctuated with trails of feathery clouds low on the horizon. A flock of birds flies into view, swirling and soaring above them. They fly down close to the tree line, coming together in a tight formation before breaking apart again. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Anders raise his arm to shield his eyes. She follows his gaze, tracking the flock of birds. They swoop low in front of him before they soar high into the air and fly off into the distance. Anders turns pale, dropping to his knees and covering his face with his hands.

Aryana jumps up, closing the distance between herself and Anders in a few short steps. He is trembling and she presses herself against his back, wrapping her arms around him.

"Get off," he says, but she holds him tightly against her, smoothing his hair with her hand. His breath comes in sharp gasps that gradually slow.

"What is it?" she says.

"Nothing - I - I thought I saw something."

She releases her hold on him and scans the meadow before them. "I don't see anything?"

"Let it go." He turns around, tendrils of hair are plastered to his face with sweat.

"Tell me," she says.

He stands up shakily, glances back at the others and takes a few steps in the opposite direction. Aryana follows him, grabbing his arm.

"Don't shut me out."

He leans on his staff, looking down at the ground. "I saw a face," he says, his voice low.

"Where?"

"In front of me."

"You mean a vision?"

"No, _her_ face. Elthina. Didn't you see it?" he says, a wild glint in his eyes.

A cold dread settles in her stomach as she looks at his pale, waxy complexion.

"I saw only birds," says Aryana, slowly. She puts her hand onto his back. "You need to get away from here."

He looks at her, long and hard, as if he realizes what she must be thinking. "I can't get away from myself," he says.

Varric strides through the long grass towards them. "You all right Blondie?"

"Yes," he says, sounding anything but.

Aryana meets Varric's questioning gaze and gives the slightest shake of her head.

"Well… our scout is back," says Varric, "it's time to make a move."

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What news?" says Aryana, as they walk back to the clearing to where Zevran is waiting.

"Three Templars, down in the cargo bay. We should be able to slip past them. The owner of the boat will take us over to Ferelden, but not openly, and the price is steep. We'll have to sneak onto the boat, keep our heads down. The next cargo run is scheduled to leave in thirty minutes. " Zevran looks at Anders. "We need to say our goodbyes and be quick about it."

"We'll come down part-way, I want to see that you get onto the boat. If the Templars spot you, we'll be close by to help," says Aryana.

"Let us get on with this," says Zevran.

Leaving the horses tethered out of sight, they snake their way down the steep and slippery hillside. Aryana marvels at how agile and quiet Varric, Isabela and Zevran are. In contrast, Fenris crashes through the undergrowth like a wild animal, while she slips and slides several feet on her backside, cursing the poor traction offered by her boots.

Zevran stops short, turns and proffers his hand to help her to her feet.

"It's time for us to part ways isn't it?" says Aryana. But instead of meeting her eyes, his gaze is set on the far distance behind her.

"Oh my dear, I fear that _that_ is no longer on option," he says.

Dread descends into her stomach and she turns around. The silhouettes of twenty Templars are lined up along the ridge of the hill behind them.

"I suggest that we make a run for the boat. " says Zevran.

"We could take them _here,_ " says Aryana. But as she speaks, another rank of Templars pulls up behind the first.

They turn and run the rest of the way down to the harbor, stumbling and cursing along the way. Zevran leaps onto the deck of the boat, and the others follow. He grabs the captain and holds a knife to his throat, Aryana hears his low voice whisper in the captain's ear. "Just for appearances you understand?"

Isabela, follows his lead, punching the nearest deck-hand to the floor. She and Fenris pull up the anchor and start to raise the main sail. The Templars thunder down the hill, spilling into the harbor.

"Archers!" a commanding voice goes up from the Templar front line.

Aryana sees a line of bows tilt skywards and instinctively throws up a wall of protection. Arrows deflect from the shimmering screen, thudding onto the deck around them. Moments later, the heavy profile of a knight Templar appears over the bow of the boat. The shimmering shield wavers and then dissipates at his touch. Aryana throws spell after spell at him; each washing his torso in a soft light for a second around before fading into nothing.

 _Indirect, something indirect._ She throws a swathe of ice onto the deck and he flails for a moment before lurching forward again. He's so close that she can see his cold stare through the slit of the helm. She has only one thing strong enough to fell a Templar: she can pull a person's demons to the fore, can turn his own mind against him. She casts a long wisp of green smoke, wrapping it around the Templars eyes. The spell binds his head, the smoke deepens in intensity for a moment then turns white and disappears.

That is the strongest spell she has.

She braces herself, but then the Templar stops short, a look of astonishment on his face. He falls forward and she sags for a moment under the weight of him, before she pushes his body to one side. She looks up to see Fenris, his hand around a bloody pulp of flesh.

"Simple, but effective," he sneers.

A loud noise rumbles up from below deck. Aryana runs to the side of the boat, fearing another breach by the Templars. Oars appear from portholes near the waterline. They hit the waves sharply. A load drumming beat rises up, and she feels the boat pitch as the oarsmen struggle against its inertia. For a few minutes they roil on the waves while the shouts of the Templars get louder as they see their prey slipping away from them.

 _Finally,_ with an almighty lurch, the boat pulls painstakingly slowly away from land.


End file.
